


Impala Sex

by The_White_Rabbit42



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Vaginal Sex, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 07:23:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17844971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_White_Rabbit42/pseuds/The_White_Rabbit42
Summary: A hunt almost goes sideways and you and Mick find yourselves giving in to temptation in less than ideal places.





	Impala Sex

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 2019 Kink Bingo on Tumblr  
> Bingo Square: Impala Sex  
> Follow me at @thewhiterabbit42

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

 

Mick’s whisper becomes swallowed.  By the heady thrill of danger dancing along the air. By your mouth as your lips lay claim to his once more, unable to keep yourself from stealing taste after taste.  Your fingers rake through his hair, and despite his protest, his hands are at your hips, tugging you flush against his body. 

 

He’s right.  It’s neither the time nor place. You’re both splattered in vamp blood that has yet to fully dry, and the Winchesters should be back any minute.  But  _ ideal  _ is as foreign a concept as the luxury that comes from working with the British Men of Letters, and you’re well beyond the point of caring who might catch you with your pants around your ankles, or that you actually have a decent hotel room you can drop them in. 

 

“ _ Wait _ .” 

 

He grabs your hands, a war raging inside of him, one one that adds an urgency to his tone.  It implores you to listen, but also doesn’t stop you when you reach forward to palm him through his pants.  His resolve fractures, frenetic fingertips tugging your undershirt free from your jeans so that he can drink in the smooth expanse of flesh beneath it.  

 

You’re tired of waiting, and you know he is too.  You can still see the look of horror on his face that went beyond almost witnessing a colleague being ripped apart.  You can still feel weighted certainty that  _ this is it _ clinging to your being.  You need this.  _ Him _ .  Something to keep you from facing the fact that you almost didn’t come back this time.  

 

You know you’ve won the battle the moment he allows you to push him into the backseat of the Impala.  

 

He bounces across the leather, dragging his legs hastily in to make space for you.  You’re thankful for the way your boots simply zip up the side, making it easy to lose them.  Your jeans are a little less cooperative, but, ever eager to lend a helping hand, Mick reaches forward, wrenching them down to your knees.  

 

Any other time you might have cracked a joke.  He’s been nothing but cordial business and gentlemanly manners around you, and his eagerness is a nice development.  But, there’s no time for humor, no desire other than to quench the the need roiling low in your stomach. 

 

You only bother with one pant leg, dragging the rest into the car before shutting the door behind you.  Strong hands land at your hips and he hoists you into his lap where your fingers immediately fly to his belt.  You have the front of his pants open and your own underwear pushed aside in mere moments, though it feels like an eternity passes before you can finally free him.  

 

Again, not ideal.  There's not enough space to fully appreciate him or for him to appreciate you, and you’re certain you’d earn a one-way ticket off Winchester Island if Dean even had an inkling of what was happening inside his car.   

 

That does little to stop you from enjoying the man beneath you.  

 

You line him up with your entrance, sinking yourself down upon him.  You groan in satisfaction as your walls give a burning stretch, whereas Mick sucks in air between his teeth as if he might come apart at that moment.  

 

“Oh god,” he moans when he's fully hilted, fingers digging so tightly into you there's bound to be a few prints left behind.  

 

He tugs, urging you to move, and you raise up until you're almost completely off him before he's buried in your wet heat again.  You find a comfortable pace to start, one that quickly gains in tempo, until there's nothing but the sounds of your ragged breaths and groans within the vehicle.  

 

You can tell it’s frustrating that he can’t get to you.  Not fully. Not in ways he so clearly wants. He’s everywhere, frantically trying to touch every part of you, as if he may never get another opportunity to again.  Despite his desperation, he’s controlled, grip firm but no longer bruising, drinking you in until you nearly suffocate, but never forgetting to let you come up for air.  

 

You’ve thought about this many times, but no amount of fantasizing could have prepared you for the way you perfectly fit in his lap, how he  _ knows  _ how to handle you, how you just need him fast, _ hard _ , without reservation.  

 

It’s the best post-hunt high you’ve ever chased.  It’s intense, all-encompassing, and as much as you’d love to make the most of the experience, you do everything you can to push him over the edge first.  He doesn’t just trip over it, but goes careening over the finish line, a series of  _ fucks _ echoing with his erratic, then slowing thrusts.  

 

He slumps, head dropping back onto the seat.  Both your chests are heaving and it takes a moment for you to catch your breath.  As much as you want to revel in how thoroughly sated he looks, you know you can’t.    

 

Carefully, you slide off him, your body protesting at the sudden emptiness.  Without a word you get back into your pants, hastily climbing back out of the car to find your boots and escape the stifling silence.

 

By the time he emerges, you’ve not only put yourself back to rights, but you’ve taken a seat on top of the hood.  Other than the residual glow in your cheeks and the obvious sex hair he’s sporting, there’s no other evidence of what just happened.  None that’s visible, anyway.

 

“Hey.”  You acknowledge him, unsure of what else to do.  This all feels a little out of your league. You’ve slept with other hunters before, but never anyone as important as him, and never anyone you’ve had feelings for.  

 

“I hope you’ll accept my apology,” he begins, and your slowing heart begins racing anew at his stiff, distant tone.   

 

You swallow.  “For?” 

 

You don't mean to sound so challenging, but the slick on your thighs hasn't even dried and he's already making excuses, which is fast, even for a bureaucrat. 

 

He releases a breath, hand raking through his hair.  His eyes drop, wandering over the ground as he looks at nothing in particular.  You hope the measured pause he gives is him choosing his next words carefully. 

 

“Not adhering to proper etiquette.”

 

Whatever  _ etiquette  _ he’s referring to must be British, because you have no idea what he's talking about.

 

Your brow arches, but you refrain from saying anything until he explains himself.   

 

“You know…” He jams his hands into his pockets and clears his throat.  “Ladies first?”

 

You turn to look at him,  _ really  _ look at him, and you realize what you’ve been picking up on isn’t him being detached so much as embarrassed.  

 

“Oh.”   _ That _ .  “I mean…”  You’ve never had anyone care enough to apologize.  What  _ does  _ one say in this situation?   

 

_ Sorry I couldn’t wait another half hour to jump your bones?   _

 

No.  You didn’t need him thinking you’re even more desperate than you already seemed. 

 

_ No big deal. It happens all the time?   _

 

Yeah, maybe if you  _ want  _ him to think dragging men into the backseat after a hunt is par for the course.  

 

The pressure to say something overwhelms you, and you decide to throw caution to the wind.  

 

“...the night’s still young?”  

 

His eyes snap up and you freeze.  He goes as still as stone, and your heart follows suit, unsure of what it means.  

 

A roguish smile breaks through the surface, lighting up his eyes.  “I guess it is.” 

 

He steps in front of you, hand brushing the hair back from your face before taking you by the chin.  “May I?” 

 

You smile, relief flooding your system as you grab the front of his suit.  You get lost in each other again, but this time it’s different. It’s slow and sweet, filled with electricity and a tenderness that’s sorely been missing from your life.  He takes the time to explore your mouth, your tongue, all the places along your neck that make you sigh. For a few minutes, there’s nothing but you and him, and the world without monsters he’d pitched to you months back is suddenly a reality.  

 

Until the Winchesters return and promptly burn it to the ground.  

 

“Hey, hey,  _ hey! _ ”  Dean yells, emerging from the treeline.  “What are you, fifteen? Quit necking on my car!” 

 

Sam trails behind him with a snort.  “Necking, Dean? Really?” 

 

“I mean it,” his brother warns. “Off!” 

 

You draw back, putting your hands up in surrender and Mick mutters something that suspiciously sounds like  _ bloody wankers  _ though it could have just been  _ Winchesters _ .  He steps back giving you room to hop down and while he looks less than thrilled, you can’t keep yourself from smirking at the vein starting to pop on Dean’s forehead.  

 

If only he knew what you’d really been up to in his precious Baby. 

 


End file.
